“Maybe she has some point, and it’s just too early to see it.”
“I’m sure she does. And I think this is better than the alternative. To just have her gone completely.”
Em took my hand and squeezed the tips of my fingers one at a time. “She loved you a lot. That’s one of those things everyone says to try to help, but it’s true, you know? She really cared about you.”
“I really care about you.”
“That’s nice, but the difference is you’re never going to die. You can’t. Where would I get my hair dye?”
“My mom, probably.”
“Well, who would help me put it in? I can’t maintain this level of pigmentation without you, Lottie. Promise me you’ll live forever.”
“I promise,” I said.
We pinkie-swore it.
I wished that were enough to make it true.
The wind at the top of the cliff was wicked; Margo struggled to catch her breath against it. She had no idea where Alvin had gone to, and she felt scared, really scared, for maybe the first time in her entire life.
That fear was amplified tenfold as she watched the dark figure emerge from the tree line. He stepped into the moonlight, and she saw, with another stab of terror, that it was not her brother, but the man who’d been chasing them, the dark figure she’d started to refer to as the Overcoat Man.
He was disheveled, and his eyes were wild.
Margo was completely trapped. Behind her: the edge of the cliff, a straight plummet two hundred feet to the forest floor below. In front of her: the Overcoat Man, looking almost smug, almost pleased.
“Nowhere to go, is there?” he asked.
“Who are you?” she cried. “What do you want?”
“You better tell me how you got in that house,” he said. “You better tell me, and quick.”
“We opened the door! We walked inside! Just like you get into any house! It’s not rocket science!” Margo yelled, because they’d already told him that, and he just kept asking and asking....
“That house is magic! There’s no opening of doors! There’s no walking inside! You better stop lying to me, girl!”
Margo felt suddenly defiant. A rush of courage surged through her body. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not telling you ANYTHING,” she screamed.
And then he’d darted at her, his face twisted into an expression of sharp rage.
And then he’d pushed.
For one beautiful, calm moment, Margo was flying.
And then she realized: Oh no. Not flying.
Falling.
—fromAlvin Hatter and the House in the Middle of the Woods
6
When I walked in the house that night, I found my dad sitting alone at the kitchen table. He had a book open in front of him like he was reading, but upon closer inspection I saw that it was the operating manual for our stove. He was just kind of staring at it, like he had grabbed the first thing he’d found, like it was just a prop to convince the casual viewer that he was doing anything other than sitting, being sad, doing nothing. I wanted to tell him what was in Aunt Helen’s letters. I wanted to show him—look, see, she’s not really all gone yet—but I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I didn’t want to interrupt him, intrude on whatever thoughts he was lost in. So I went upstairs.
That night, alone in my bedroom, I read the next letter from Aunt Helen.
As usual, the sight of her handwriting made my breath catch in my throat.
